WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE

"When bodyguards require bodyguards, just shows how much we all enjoy being alive eh?" Such is the cryptic text i receive from Mayhem on Monday. I know she's been doing a bit of bodyguard work for the Mistress Kallista, but what's going down now? Here's the scenario: the Mels (Melinda Mayhem and Melody) are having a quiet Sunday on the front lawn. A few beers, a bit of sunshine, a pill and a bit of a lie down. Mr T is visiting. When i pop around on the motorcycle to say hello, everything is quite normal. Mayhem is off her dial, drinking Corona, spouting her singular blend of the fustian and the sententious. Mel is as imperturbable as ever behind goggle sunglasses, and Mr T is looking deadly in wraparound shades leaning against the Merc. Looking at Mr T you'd figure he's probably got muscles in his shit. I hang about briefly then head for the boredom of Fremantle.

Then all kinds of hullaballoo breaks out. Some of these youths with knives turn up, the ones you read about in the newspapers. The very same ones. Threatening the girls, one crazy crackhead cutting up his own hand like a cheap version of Iggy Pop. Mayhem had just rescued Mel from houseshare hell with these stooges, and Mel took a bit of money to cover her out-of-pocket expenses (she'd been ripped off). And now they come around wanting the money back! Tsk, tsk. Cruising the streets until they spot the Mayhem Merc. The cash belongs to someone else (gee, I wonder what that someone else does for a living) and here they are prepared to wave their knives about to get it.

So it's a quiet suburban Sunday on the front lawn, with these kids are carrying on like a Demtel's Tim Shaw on crack. "But wait, there's more! I've got steak knives! That's right! A full set of steak knives! Quality German steel! I'll throw them in, no obligation! Stick 'em in now, you pay later!" This pitch goes on and on until Mr T politely asks permission to get up and deck someone. Which he does. Mr T has a stake in the bodyguard business. Keeps in practice with the kickboxing. His hobbies and interests include playing with fire, and guns.


Later, i send Mayhem a text asking if she is sleeping with a knife under her pillow.
"No, hmmm ... but i am sleeping with a deadly weapon." Ah, she's now got Mr T as her bodyguard. All a bit of a worry though, isn't it? I come home to see the West Australian, that right-wing political pamphlet masquerading as a daily newspaper, and what's on the front page? A big colour spread of flick knives. I've got to get out of this town. The kids are all going beserk on the crack pipe and we're all going to die.